


In Another Life

by TwisterMelody



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-21 16:55:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/902656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwisterMelody/pseuds/TwisterMelody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>World War II booms in the distance as John and Sherlock meet for the first and possibly last time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Another Life

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Let's Write Sherlock: Challenge 3!  
> Prompt: Write a story inspired by a piece of music.  
> Inspired by the song "Travelin' Soldier" by The Dixie Chicks.

If the early 1940's had brought a mist of grey upon the world, he didn't notice. If there were people in mass hysteria, he paid them no attention. Sherlock Holmes, at only nineteen years old, was a young man who walked alone.

Tall and thin with his unruly curls, black trousers, and crisp white shirt rolled up to his elbows, he was a sight to be seen. He strode into his usual cafe early one summer morning for his usual routine, which consisted of a cigarette, coffee, and skimming through the newspaper. He swung his legs around a bar stool and sat down comfortably. The owner was a short, stout man named Mike who wore thick rimmed glasses and a friendly smile. He slid Sherlock's coffee cup across the bar.  
  
"How's my favorite customer today?" Mike asked with a grin.  
  
Sherlock sighed as he flipped open his paper. "Bored. Nothing of interest whatsoever going on."  
  
Mike rolled his eyes at him and turned away. "I'm sure I could find millions of people who would disagree with you."  
  
Sherlock merely hummed in response. He smoothly reached into his pocket, pulling out both a cigarette and his shining silver lighter. He brought the cigarette to his lips and fiddled with the lighter a bit. It clicked again and again but no flame came about.  
  
"Damn it," he muttered as he tossed the lighter down, letting it clatter onto the bar. He glanced around the little cafe which only held five other occupants. There were two chatty young women, an elderly couple, and one young man sitting alone in a booth in a fitting soldier's uniform, staring into his coffee cup as he impatiently tapped his fingers on the table. Sherlock spun the bar stool around and walked over to the young man.  
  
"Excuse me," he said coolly with the cigarette between his lips, "may I borrow your lighter?"  
  
"Sorry," the man began with a polite smile, "but I don't -"  
  
"Yes," Sherlock interrupted, "you don't smoke. Obvious. But your flatmate does and you seem to have grabbed their lighter this morning." Sherlock nodded his head towards the breast pocket of the man's uniform. "Perhaps you're attempting to get them to quit the habit by swiping it, or perhaps you grabbed it in a rush by mistake this morning as you wanted to leave as quickly as possible. Either way, may I borrow it?"  
  
A small wave of confusion and disbelief washed over his face before he reached into his breast pocket, pulling out the lighter, and handing it to Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock lit the tip and let the sweet taste of tobacco fill his lungs. He handed the lighter back to the man with a mumbled 'thank you' and turned to head back to his bar stool.  
  
The man glanced over to where Sherlock's cup of coffee still sat on the bar. "You could join me if you'd like." He stumbled over his words a bit as Sherlock stopped in his tracks. "It's just that. Well. I could use some company, so I thought that maybe..." he trailed off.  
  
Sherlock swiped his cup of coffee off of the bar and slid into the booth across from him before he could finish his thought. "Sherlock Holmes," he stated clearly, pulling the cigarette away from his mouth.  
  
"John," he said, gesturing to himself. "John Watson." John smiled at him kindly. "How did you know all that?" he asked, clearly surprised. "That I didn't smoke and that I left in a rush, that is?"  
  
Sherlock took another puff and smiled, eyes raking over John, taking everything in. "No traces of tobacco stains on your fingers, nor do you carry the scent of smoke. Uniform suggests you're leaving out today, but you're young, twenty-one by the looks of it, and eager to leave. That suggests to me that you have problems at home. Leaving out today and you're not spending it with family?" he asked rhetorically as he took another drag and blew the smoke off to the side. "Not a family you're close to, then. You live with a sibling who smokes, which you don't approve of as you were training to become a doctor. But, you ran out of funds. Your only choice was to move back home, where you immediately got called to the army. You're bored with day to day life and happen to be a bit excited about what's to come. First time being sent out, then. Plus, as I said, you're not close to your family, so you were in a hurry to leave. And that is precisely why you're alone at a cafe on the morning of your leave, though you're not set to go until this afternoon."  
  
John's tongue flicked over his lips as he stared in amazement. "That was fantastic!" he remarked enthusiastically.  
  
Sherlock drew in one last breath of smoke before stubbing the cigarette into the ashtray on the table. "Do you think so?" A small grin tugged at his lips.  
  
John smiled at him warmly. "Are you kidding? Of course it was!"  
  
The others in the little cafe had become quiet at the outburst, staring at the two of them as if hunting prey. John's ears reddened at the tips as his looked down into his coffee.  
  
Sherlock inclined his head towards the door. "Want to go somewhere more interesting?"  
  
"God, yes."

They walked through the streets of the city together as if they were old friends. People were about everywhere, as the nice weather had drawn them to the shops. The streets were busy with distractions, but the two of them had gotten lost in each other. Not one moment was spent in silence, and they were both happy. Sherlock babbled on about how he could read people, while John continued to shower him in compliments. John talked little about himself, mostly about the life he had in the city and what he was expecting from the war. Sherlock listened intently, oddly fascinated by the man himself.

It was just past three when they made their way to a large park for a break. They sat themselves on the cool grass under the tangled, shady branches of a few weeping willow trees, facing the lake. It was a secluded little spot that Sherlock often frequented, as he was left alone there. The branches swayed softly with the breeze, and the sunlight caught the shimmer of John's deep oceanic eyes as he smiled, and made his short blonde hair nearly glow.

"This has been nice. A nice day. Fun," John remarked with a smile as he leaned back on his elbows.

"You're to be going soon, aren't you?" Sherlocked asked quietly, staring at the ducks swooping across the lake before them. Sherlock leaned back as well, joining him.

John nodded slowly in response. "Yeah," he croaked. "Shame, too. To be leaving when I've finally met someone." Sherlock stared at John with a furrowed brow. John quickly started backpedaling over his words. "Not that I mean... Oh, Christ, I didn't -"

"John," Sherlock interrupted, his deep voice low and even, "have you ever kissed a man?"

John immediatly shut his mouth and turned to face the lake, a deep crimson flushing over his cheeks. He averted his eyes and fiddled with a blade of grass between his fingers.

"Mm, I take that as a no, then," Sherlock deduced. He watched as John stared down at the ground below them, looking for some sort of apparent distraction. When John's eyes sheepishly met his, he spoke once more. "Would you like to?" he asked throatily.

John's pupils dialated and his tongue swept over his lips. "We can't," he stated with a quiet, regretful tone as he shook his head slightly.

Sherlock took in their surroundings. The park was nearly empty, the closest inhabitants on the other side of the lake were three young children caught up in a game of tag, their faces too far away to be seen clearly. The heavy branches of the willow tree almost acted as a protective layer between them and the rest of London.

"We _can_ ," Sherlock corrected, gesturing to their surroundings. "If you'd like, that is." His bright eyes became intensely focused on John; he drank it all in, everything from the broadness of his shoulders to the honey tones of his eyelashes.

John glanced around quickly and returned his gaze to Sherlock's. A soft, cool breeze swept through that brought goosebumps to their skin and teased Sherlock's curls.  
  
"I think," John began slowly, "that I'd like that very much."  
  
Sherlock's gaze softened. They both inched in towards each other as they were leaned back on the grass, slowly, cautiously. "Could be dangerous," Sherlock murmured softly with half lidded eyes. A small, lopsided grin tugged at the corner of John's mouth as they closed in upon each other, John bringing one hand underneath Sherlock's chin with a feather's touch to guide him.

The brush of John's lips was soft and warm against Sherlock's cupid's bow. John inched his mouth open slightly, and Sherlock took the opportunity to nibble at his bottom lip, the taste faintly reminding him of cinnamon and lemon drops. They moved together in harmony as Sherlock let out a soft moan of happiness. John suddenly broke into a grin, and Sherlock joined him.  
  
"Any good?" Sherlock asked cheekily.  
  
John nodded, still smiling. "Very good."  
  
The summer sunshine sprinkled over both of them, breaking through the leaves of the branches. Everything around them shone with the brightest of light. And underneath those willow trees, there was no war, only safety and happiness.  
  
"So," John started, pushing himself up on one elbow, "you don't have a girlfriend, then? Or a... boyfriend?"  
  
"Definitely not," Sherlock drawled out, rolling onto his back atop the green grass. "And the answer is yes."  
  
"Yes?" John echoed.  
  
"Yes." He stretched his long body out across the grass, bringing his hands under his head, staring at the tall trees and blue sky above. "You were going to ask if you could write to me, seeing as how you have no one else at home. That with the fact that we ju-" Sherlock's deduction was abruptly broken off when John's lips came down upon his once more, quickly and chastely. Sherlock beamed up at him. "Stealing kisses now, Doctor?"  
  
John smiled and collapsed on his back next to Sherlock. He brought his uniform hat which he'd been carrying with him and laid it upon his chest, along with one of his hands as the other acted as a pillow for his head. "Ha, I'm not fully a doctor yet, you know."  
  
"You'd make a fine doctor," he responded as if it were fact.  
  
"And you'd make a fine detective," John replied.  
  
Sherlock turned his head towards him and met John's gaze. "Do you think so?" he asked openly and honestly.  
  
"I know so."  
  
Another crooked grin fell upon Sherlock's face as he reached one hand between them and plucked a dandelion from the earth. He brought it up to his face and twirled it around, inspecting it.   
  
John huffed out a laugh. "Go on, then," he motioned with his head, "make a wish and blow on it."  
  
Sherlock stared at the small plant between his fingers with a thoughtful expression before pushing his lips out and blowing. The seeds fluttered and floated along through the air above their heads, nearly disappearing in the breeze. Sherlock still held the naked stem as he mirrored John by resting his hand on his chest. "I made a wish that you'll come back safely," he said after a moment.  
  
John shook his head fondly. "You're not supposed to tell me, otherwise it won't come true," he laughed. "Now I'll probably come back with a chunk of my shoulder missing or something, you git."  
  
"Perhaps in another life." He flicked the bare dandelion into the grass. "All of this is superstitious nonsense," he said indicating the plant as he waved his hand in a shooing motion. "Idiot."  
  
John just chuckled lightly at him. They were both smiling in the peaceful quiet when Sherlock grabbed John's hand from his chest, raising it above their heads.  
  
"Your hands will be tanned the next time I see them."  
  
John snorted. "It's not as if I'm going to the bloody desert. I hardly think I'll be tanned."

"Time will tell," Sherlock replied as he held John's hand in his own, resting it upon his chest.   
  
"Yes, speaking of time," John started, "I think it's about time for me to head off." There was a sadness at the edge of his voice, a feeling of reluctance that couldn't be shaken.  
  
Sherlock brought John's hand up to his lips and kissed it softly. "Write to me," he murmured against his skin. "221B Baker Street."  
  
John rolled onto his side and ruffled his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "Promise," he said simply before getting up, putting his hat on, and walking away. Sherlock lay on the grass and turned to watch him. John turned back once and smiled at him, and Sherlock returned the gesture. He kept watching until John was out of sight.  
  
The first letter arrived nearly three weeks later, and Sherlock found himself undeniably happy to have recieved it. It didn't state much, but started with perhaps they were a bit mad, writing after only just having met. He wrote about the war as well, mainly that he'd gotten settled in and had met some people. Sherlock read it over and over before responding, blatantly telling John to not be so boring with such meaningless details. At the end, however, he asked _"Where's the fun in life if you don't do something mad once in a while?"_  
  
John's second letter included calling Sherlock a smart aleck, but admitting that it was refreshing to hear from him. So he went on about interesting things he had seen at the camp, and the questionable food. Sherlock's reply included a warning for food poisoning and a suggestion to collect some of his dinner as samples to be used on the enemy. At the end, Sherlock wrote about how he wished John had stayed a bit longer. Everyone else that he met was so boring compared to him.  
  
After the start of the bombings across London and elsewhere, the letters became a precious item that Sherlock almost physically had a need for. John begged him to stay safe to which Sherlock told him to not be such a hypocrite. They both seemed to have had an appetite for danger, after all. They wrote to each other as often as possible, nearly every week. More than anything, Sherlock longed for the day when John would come back. He would bring him home, lock the door, and never let the world take him from him again. The letters brought warmth through the bitterness of winter, and hope in the midst of a raging hell around the city. But, it wasn't enough, not for either of them.  
  
Sherlock's older brother, Mycroft, caught on rather quickly that comething had changed. Of course it had. With John, even though not in the physical sense, he was happy.  
  
Sherlock came back to 221B one January day only to find his brother sitting rather comfortable in a chair, with a box of letters he had from John sitting upon his lap. Sherlock initially froze at the sight, but then continued on as if nothing had happened. He walked over to the window and peered out as Mycroft cleared his throat.  
  
"This is it, isn't it?" Mycroft asked since Sherlock hadn't addressed the situation. "This soldier fellow you've been corresponding with? This accounts for the change in your mood, certainly." There was no reply whatsoever from Sherlock. Mycroft sighed deeply as he sat the box on the old hardwood floor. "Sherlock -"  
  
"Don't," he warned him. "Just don't."  
  
Mycroft sat quietly only for a moment before stood up and buttoned the jacket of his suit. "You're far too young for this, to be this serious about another person." Mycroft walked over to Sherlock with his hands in his pockets. "This waiting is going to drive you mad."  
  
"I seem to have done a splendid job handling it so far," he grumbled as he scowled at the buildings in the distance through the layer of dust on the window.  
  
Mycroft shook his head slightly. "There are plenty of other people out there Sherlock, plenty of people who are _here_ ," he insisted. "Look around you, now. This isn't going to end well, little brother, you and I both know that."  
  
Sherlock rounded on him sharply. "You don't know a _thing_ ," he growled through his teeth. "Leave. Now."  
  
Mycroft stared at his brother for a moment more before turning to walk down the stairs. Sherlock pulled a cigarette out of his desk drawer and brought it to his lips. The flick of his lighter seemed to make an echo through the room. The world outside was cold, grey, and pitiful. The only thing he had left was John. John was everything to him. He never wanted anyone else, and the mere thought of someone taking his place made him cringe. There was only one John Watson, and nothing could separate them.  
  
 _The start of June_ , he told himself. _June will soon be here and so will John_. He sighed and blew the smoke into the chilly air.  
  
On a particularly stormy day in late March, there was a letter waiting for Sherlock, on time as ever. He climbed up the steps to his flat and furiously shook the raindrops from his hair. Sinking down in his chair, he opened the letter, eager for John's words.  
  
 _Dear Sherlock,_  
  
 _First of all, do try to be careful with those experiments of yours. Yes, I know, I can practically hear you rolling your eyes even as I write this. I'd just rather you not end up losing a limb because you were bored. How would you play your violin? Second of all, I miss you. I know I tell you this in nearly every letter, but I do. There's no one else quite like you, you know. I wish I had a photograph to keep around, but a photo wouldn't do that mind of yours justice. You are, in a word, brilliant. And I love you and miss you terribly. It's rather scary here at times. I've seen men die, good men who were friends of mine. I've seen so much blood and loss lately and I'm just tired. I want to come back to London, though that's no safer. But I want to come back to you. And I will, soon. When I do, we're going back to the park to sit under those trees again.  To be honest, when firing and screaming won't stop, I think of that day. I think of dandelion wishes, the warm sunshine, and your smile. Did I ever tell you that day was the happiest I've ever been? Well, it was. It keeps me going, to know what I'm coming back to. It's no use to reply to this letter, we're moving out soon, I think. It may be a bit before I can write to you again, but don't worry. I'll get through as soon as I can._  
 _I'm coming home to you. I promise._  
  
 _Yours always,_  
 _John_  
  
  
Sherlock clutched the letter and read it over and over for thirty minutes after that. He carefully added the letter to the dozens in his little wooden box and then lay on his sofa, staring at the ceiling. Thunder boomed around the flat outside. He closed his eyes and went to sleep, cold and alone.  
  
A month later, there had still been silence from John. Sherlock was growing irritated rather quickly, but tried to keep a level head. He missed him, after all. _A month an a half_ , he thought, _a month and a half more and he's coming home_. Sherlock, being bored as he was, fiddled with his little radio to hear some news. Just something, _anything_ , to let his mind focus on. He finally got it working, and a man's voice came over the waves, babbling on about the ongoing war. Sherlock groaned.  
  
Suddenly, there was a pounding knock at the door, and by the time Sherlock had made his way down the stairs, it had stopped. A single envelope lay on the inside of his door, and he practically dove for it, tearing it open without even looking at it first. His eyes quickly scanned over the lines.  
  
 _Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,_  
  
 _We regret to inform you..._  
  
Sherlock's stomach sank before he even finished the sentence. He knew what that meant, and he didn't want it to be true. He read the letter as the world around him ground to a halt. The little radio upstairs echoed it's way through the flat. The man droned on about the war and the latest number of casualties. In the midst of so many, there was only one that mattered to him, and he was gone. His soldier was gone. He dropped down to the cold, barren floor and stared into the darkness. He suddenly felt sick. He wanted to scream and cry, but nothing came out but a wave of shock and loss.  
  
"You were coming home," he whispered, "you promised."  
  
He spent the next two weeks in a cycle of sleeping, drinking, and wandering aimlessly around London. He neglected his physical appearence, not seeing the point in in brushing his hair or shaving. The danger wasn't a thrill anymore. Little crimes weren't interesting anymore. There was just a nothingness left, a hole shot through the center of his body that nothing could ever fix. He didn't speak, nor did he eat. He just floated along through life, just existing. His mind flicked between a jumbled mess of thoughts and a nothingness that couldn't be beared with.  
  
He stepped outside late one night wrapped in his dressing gown and just leaned against the door to his flat. The bombings were still going on, and he just watched the flames take over everything in sight, unmoving. The last explosions that rattled through his ears took him with it. There was no pain. The last thing he saw was the night sky, and the last thought he had was of his soldier.  
  
When he woke, Sherlock felt... Odd. There were birds chirping in the distance, and the sound of ducks quacking along. He blinked his eyes open to find himself laying underneath the willow trees with the warm sunshine sprinkling across his face. He quickly stood up and looked around to try to find an explanation. He noticed his state of dress was much different from the dressing gown and pajamas he was previously in; instead, he was in his black trousers and crisp white shirt once more. He furrowed his brow in confusion when he noticed a figure out of the corner of his eye.  
  
Still under the branches but at the water's edge, there was a man shorter in stature with cut blonde hair. He had on military uniform trousers and a plain grey t-shirt with a glint of a silver chain around his neck. He stood casually, facing the lake with his hands in his pockets. When the man turned, Sherlock found John Watson smiling back at him. Sherlock's mouth dropped open, and before he knew it, he slammed into John, throwing his arms around him and squeezing the air from his lungs.  
  
John brought his strong arms around Sherlock's figure and held him securely, squeezing tightly. "You came home," the well remembered voice murmured into his neck, "you came home to me."  
  
Sherlock pressed frantic kisses to John's head, quickly fumbling over "I love you's" and "I missed you's" while desperately holding on. John backed him away slightly before cupping the back of his neck and bringing Sherlock's mouth to his. Still the taste of cinnamon and lemon drops from all those months ago lingered on his lips. The kiss didn't last long as they both broke into smiles.  
  
They were wrapped up in their own little Heaven. The limbs of the great branches swayed slightly with the breeze and the blue sky brought a sense of peacefulness they hadn't seen in nearly a year. Together they were at last. John sat down with his back against the trunk of a willow with Sherlock seated sideways in front of him, legs entangled, with his ear pressed against his chest. Sherlock happily sighed upon hearing the sound of John's beating heart. John wrapped an arm around him, pulling him closer.  
  
John plucked a dandelion from the ground beside them and twirled it between his thumb and finger, bringing it in front of Sherlock and himself.  
  
Sherlock paid the plant no attention, instead he lightly brushed his fingers at the inside of John's wrist, noticing the very faint difference in skin tone there. "Told you they'd be tanned," he said proudly.   
  
John's shoulders shook as he chuckled, pressing a kiss to his forehead.  
  
"You would have been a fantastic doctor," Sherlock said quietly.  
  
"And you would have been a brilliant detective," John replied warmly.  
  
"Mm. Perhaps in another life."  
  
"In another life," John agreed as he blew on the dandelion.  
  
The dandelion seeds floated and entangled through the air, carrying along enough wishes to last them a thousand lifetimes.

**Author's Note:**

> John may have not come home to Sherlock, but at least Sherlock came "home" to John! Hope you enjoyed! :)


End file.
